“Take a peg,” he said, brightening up.  “Do you—­shall I call somebody——­”

“No, please.”

She extended her slim limbs and crossed her feet.  Lying still there in the sunshine, arms crooked behind her head, she gazed straight out ahead.  Light breezes lifted her soft bright hair; the same zephyrs bore from tennis courts on the east the far laughter and calling of the unseen players.

“Who are they?” she inquired.

“The Pink ’uns, Naida, and Jack Dysart.  There’s ten up on every set,” he added, “and I’ve side obligations with Rosalie and Duane.  Take you on if you like; odds are on the Pink ’uns.  Or I’ll get a lump of sugar and we can play ‘Fly Loo.’”

“No, thanks.”

A few moments later she said: 

“Do you know, somehow, recently, the forest world—­all this pretty place of lakes and trees—­” waving her arm toward the horizon—­“seems to be tarnished with the hard living and empty thinking of the people I have brought into it....  I include myself.  The region is redolent of money and the things it buys.  I had a better time before I had any or heard about it.”

“Why, you’ve always had it——­”

“But I didn’t know it.  I’d like to give mine away and do something for a living.”

“Oh, every girl has that notion once in a lifetime.”

“Have they?” she asked.

“Sure.  It’s hysteria.  I had it myself once.  But I found I could keep busy enough doing nothing without presenting my income to the Senegambians and spending life in a Wall Street office.  Of course if I had a pretty fancy for the artistic and useful—­as Duane Mallett has—­I suppose I’d get busy and paint things and sell ’em by the perspiration of my brow——­”

She said disdainfully:  “If you were never any busier than Duane, you wouldn’t be very busy.”

“I don’t know.  Duane seems to keep at it, even here, doesn’t he?”

She looked up in surprise:  “Duane hasn’t done any work since he’s been here, has he?”

“Didn’t you know?  What do you suppose he’s about every morning?”

“He’s about—­Rosalie,” she said coolly.  “I’ve never seen any colour box or easel in their outfit.”

“Oh, he keeps his traps at Hurryon Lodge.  He’s made a lot of sketches.  I saw several at the Lodge.  And he’s doing a big canvas of Rosalie down there, too.”

“At Hurryon Lodge?”

“Yes.  Miller lets them have the garret for a studio.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said slowly.

“Didn’t you?  People are rather catty about it.”

“Catty?”

Sheer surprise silenced her for a while, then hurt curiosity drove her to questions; but little Bunbury didn’t know much more about the matter, merely shrugging his shoulders and saying:  “It’s casual but it’s all right.”

Later the tennis players, sunburned and perspiring, came swinging up from the courts on their way to the showers.  Bunbury began to settle his obligations; Naida and the Pink ’uns went indoors; Jack Dysart, handsome, dishevelled, sat down beside Geraldine, fastening his sleeves.